


the book of love

by it_was_like_slow_motion



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_like_slow_motion/pseuds/it_was_like_slow_motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the book of love is long and boring<br/>no one can lift the damn thing<br/>it's full of charts and facts and figures<br/>and instructions for dancing</p><p>(The story of Matt's autobiography, and how it sort of, accidentally (of course it's on purpose) becomes a love story.)</p><p>*THIS IS BEING PUT ON HIATUS FOR THE TIME BEING. I WILL ATTEMPT TO RESUME AT A LATER DATE*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. foreword

_When I was in primary school, I was told all good stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. When I remembered that - that was the first time I considered throwing away the haphazard notes I had made to write this book and forgetting about it. An autobiography, after all, should be a good story. The only problem is, in order for it to be an autobiography, there can’t be an end. No one can die at the end of this book, because there still has to be someone around to write it._

_Sorry if you were expecting my death as a sudden plot twist. It’s not going to happen._

Matt looked at the words marching across his screen, considering them with a critical eye. Was it really the best way to begin his autobiography? Hell, should he even be writing one? He thought, rather dubiously, that if the first paragraph in his book was talking about how he had considered never writing it, he probably should save the story for a later date.

But for the first time, he was going to be the storyteller, not the vessel for somebody else’s words, and if he was being honest, it excited him. He could feel the words buzzing beneath his fingertips, and even through the haze of his doubts, he knew if he had to wait even one more minute for the words to come forth, he might explode.

He paused, reading over the words on his laptop screen before grinning to himself. He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and began typing again.

 _The second time I considered locking up all my words and never throwing away the key was just a few moments ago, reading the first paragraph of the book that will one day be the story of my life. It’s a daunting challenge, you know, to have to write about yourself with such honesty. It’s like ripping yourself open and having to sew the pieces back together, just because someone wants to see what’s on the inside. I think that if you ever, ever, have a doubt about who you are, you should write a book about yourself. Just rip yourself apart, and put back together the pieces. Even if it’s not who you want to be, maybe you can make the pieces change_.

He sighed, blowing a breath of air up so his fringe would stop flopping in his forehead. He had grown his hair out after his _American Psycho_ gig had ended, deciding to write his autobiography instead. He had been told that it was a necessity after being the Doctor to write an autobiography, but he’d never had the time, until now. Writing it felt so wrong, but so right.

God, he hated how already, less than two hundred and fifty words in, he sounded like a wounded poet spitting up garbage to make someone else feel something.

He exhaled again, and deleted the paragraph. He hadn’t expected the writing to be so hard – after all, it was just him. He supposed that was why it was hard.

It was time for a break, he decided, stretching languidly as he pulled his body up out of his chair and yawned. One hundred and twelve words for his first sit-down wasn’t bad, was it? Of course, he didn’t have anything to compare it to. It wasn’t like he knew anyone who had written an autobiography.

He traipsed into the kitchen, making tea while lazily scrolling through the messages on his phone. There were several from his publisher, Andrew. The thought sent a thrill up his spine – he had a little over a hundred words of a book, but someone who was already willing to send it out to the masses once he was done. If he ever finished, that was.

Pushing away the pessimistic thought, Matt opened the most recent of the messages from Andrew, chewing his lip at the words that were glaring back at him.

 _Find someone to do a foreword, please_.

A foreword. He was going to tell someone other than his mother that he was going to write an autobiography, and ask them to write about what they thought about him, why they thought it was necessary for him to share his story.

The list of people he could think of who would do that for him, let alone willingly, was pitifully short, and he blinked down at the e-mail, heart racing. Screw the writing of his autobiography – finding someone to do the foreword was going to be the hardest part.

 _Ask Alex_. The voice in his head cooed. The very same voice that was pushing him to write the damn book in the first place, and the selfsame voice that had pressured him, at least a hundred thousand times, to tell her how he felt.

He bit his lip harder. He knew what would happen if he had Alex write his foreword. His words would look like nothing compared to hers. Everything about her words was beautiful, even if she insisted it wasn’t so. She would scribble poems onto the inside of his arms when she was bored and they were rehearsing, and sometimes if he was lucky, he could copy those enchanting words onto a sheet of paper or force them to fit the form of ones and zeroes on the inside of his computer.

Alex Kingston was born to be a writer. He was not.

He forced himself to remove his lip from his mouth. Making himself bleed over the matter was not going to make anything better, even if he wished it could. She chewed her lip, too. He knew that well enough from his casual observations of her, from spending hours with her when she was concentrating or frustrated, or upset.

Somehow, like it always had, his life was coming back to Alex.

He put the tip of his thumb in place of his lip, gnawing softly. He needed to find someone else, he decided. If he didn’t, then he would be too tempted to phone her up for the first time in months. He probably wouldn’t even mention the forward, if he did get around to calling. He knew that much for a fact – their conversations, separated by months and seas and time zones, always ended up being very much the same:

Hi, how are you?

I’m fine.

 _It’s not like I miss you every day_.

And of course, if he did that, he would need to call her again, and then the first call would just seem like buildup, and he wished he had been brave enough to tell her how he felt, or at least smart enough to keep in touch.

He knew Kaz and Arthur had kept in touch with her, and he wondered, not for the first time, why he hadn’t. All of the excuses he came up with now seemed paper thin compared to all of the reasons he _should_ have kept in touch.

The words ‘I love her’ were on the top of both lists.

He sighed again, removing his thumb from his mouth and beginning to pace. If he was a bolder fellow, he would just fly out to New York (she was still there, performing _Macbeth_ for a charity theatre) and proposition her with a bouquet of roses, foreword for his autobiography be damned.

Of course he wasn’t that bold. He would just simmer in silence, watching her from afar like he always did. He would listen to Arthur and Kaz talk about him like they had forgotten, again, that he couldn’t bring himself to send even one little text, to dial ten little numbers so he could hear her voice again.

Matt set his phone down and took a sip of his forgotten tea, wincing when he realized it was stone cold. He had been pacing and chewing at various parts of his anatomy for longer than he had thought, then. He huffed for what he hoped was the final time, abandoning his tea so that he could fold up on the armchair in front of his telly, putting the day’s football match on low volume while he pondered what the next hundred or so words of his book should be.

 _I love her very much_.

Cliché and did not make sense. He deleted the words almost as soon as he had punched the enter key.

 _Alex, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry_.

What on earth did he have to apologize for? It wasn’t like he was hurting her with his silence. His heart was the one barely beating inside the cage of his ribs, singing a mourning song for love that never happened.

Damn it, he was being poetic again. The sentence met the same fate as the one previous to it, black characters once again abolished to white space.

_The second time I considered quitting this book was when I failed to write an accurate paragraph explaining the actual second time I considered quitting. If you’re keeping track, that’s technically three attempts at quitting before the first page is really even done._

That was much better. He didn’t even mention Alex, and that was good. Furthermore, it made sense, and was, dare he say, _funny_?

He let himself write, only half paying attention to his words as he became engrossed in the footie match. Manchester was being crushed by their opponent, and he could feel himself deflating with each failed attempt at a goal.

When he finally resigned himself to Manchester losing the game, Matt turned back to his screen, reading the words he had written.

_Tread lightly. His heart is breakable._

_Tread loudly. He wants to hear you._

_Tread towards him. He wants to see you._

_Tread nowhere. He wants you to stay_.

Not only was it shorter than he had expected, but it was also a poem.

Maybe he could write a book of poetry instead of an autobiography. Actually, that was a great idea – the tortured soul of an actor with a long lost love could probably make some pretty fucking amazing poetry.

 _It would also make a great love story._ The voice was back. _But you’re not here to write poetry or a love story. You’re here to tell your story._

For the time being, his story was not a love story.

He wasn’t sure if it ever would be. 


	2. hemingway

Amazingly enough, he had managed to forget about the foreword, instead plowing through the first ten years of his life with ten thousand words behind him. The beginning of his book, he knew, was little more than a collection of anecdotes and philosophical thoughts connected by nothing other than the fact that they were a part of his life. He knew Andrew would want him to clean up the sloppy collection of stories, but his publisher had also said that the first draft was just supposed to be him spewing up as many words about his life was he could possibly recall. Paring it down to the quality material would happen in the second or third draft, he was told.

Adapting to the life of a writer had been easy.  Matt sat in his flat, teacup near his left elbow as he began typing the next chapter with his right hand, pecking slowly at the keys as he took a long drought of the tea, considering the best way to word it.

 _Among the many stories I’ve collected in the back of my head and on scraps of paper, there seems to be consensus; nothing happens without reason_.

There suddenly came a knocking at his door, and Matt lifted his laptop from his lap and set it on the sofa, not bothering to put down his teacup as he shuffled towards the door. The only person who had come to visit him since the inception of his book had been his mother. It had been three days since he had last seen anyone else, five since the book had started, and Matt wondered why anyone could be calling on him. Maybe his absence was unnerving?

He swung the door open, and was promptly assaulted by a flurry of ginger hair, scruff, and gangly limbs in the form of Karen and Arthur.

As soon as Kaz regained her footing, having apparently _fallen_ into his flat rather than just walked in like a normal person, she let out a loud, shrieking laugh. Arthur, for his part, just looked at Matt amusedly, the corners of his lips twitching up into a smile.

“Have you even showered in the past week?” Karen chuckled, looking him up and down with a critical eye.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Of course I have.”

“So why on earth have you not been out of your flat?” Kaz prompted. “We planned this whole thing where we flew over from America and ‘accidentally’ bumped into you on the streets, but you haven’t been out and you absolutely ruined it!” She pouted.

“It’s a long story. Literally and figuratively.” Matt smirked.

“Huh?” Arthur intoned, turning around to finally survey Matt’s flat.

“I’m writing a book.” Matt announced, leading Karen and Arthur through his rather trashed living room and into the kitchen. Both leaned against the counter as he began boiling water for tea, not even needing to ask if they wanted any.

“A book?” Arthur repeated after a half a minute of silence. “Like a well and proper book? That will be on shelves?”

“What about?” Karen cut him off.

“I’m writing an autobiography.” Matt replied.

“You’re writing a book about your life?” Arthur said dumbly.

“You’re only thirty one!” Kaz exclaimed.

“Thirty two in two months.” Matt scowled.

“No need to get all defensive, ya numpty.” Karen huffed in reply.

“You’re writing a book. About your life.” Arthur reiterated, just in case he had misheard the first two times.

“Yes, dear, we’ve established that.” Karen rolled her eyes before pecking Arthur on the cheek as an apology for her harsh tone.

“How does it start?” Arthur asked.

“Well, Arthur, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much, a stork delivers them a baby with a huge chin and hideous ears.” Karen snickered, picking up the cup of tea Matt set in front of her as he frowned.

“Actually, it starts with me rambling about every good story needing a beginning, middle, and end.” Matt smoothed a hand through his hair, and then retrieved tea for Arthur, as well. “I’ve got the beginning and middle so far, but I’m not really sure how it ought to end.”

“Endings are rubbish anyways.” Arthur declared with a half-hearted shrug.

“Sadly, Darvill, I do need to publish the book eventually. It does need to end.” Matt sighed.

“Stop it when you get the call about becoming the Doctor.” Karen advised.

“That would make the book too short.” Arthur argued. “And you’d not even get to be in it, anyways.”

“Never mind that, then. A book without me is useless.” Karen declared, shooting a teasing smile towards Matt.

“You could stop when you _stopped_ being the Doctor?” Arthur suggested.

“That’s wrong.” Kaz frowned. “It shouldn’t be in terms of the Doctor, I don’t think.” She stated, going back on her previous suggestion. “He’s not the Doctor, and the Doctor shouldn’t define his book.”

Matt listened to them debating possible ending points of his book with interest. All of the ideas they were coming up with were brilliant in varying degrees, but whenever he found himself settling upon one, Kaz or Arthur would refute it with a comment he simply couldn’t argue with.

“Does this autobiography even have a title, mate?” Arthur asked, momentarily halting his discussion with Karen to pose the question.

“Not yet.” Matt admitted. “I considered a few, but they didn’t seem to fit well with what I’ve got so far.”

“That’s smart.” Karen pondered. “Wait until you write that one line that everyone is going to remember, and then title your book after that.”

“I’ve got to write the line first.” Matt snorted.

“Well then maybe we should stop bothering you and _not_ invite you out to drink with us tonight.” Arthur said, voice dripping with faux innocence.

“Yeah!” Kaz agreed, a little too enthusiastically. “What, with your writing and all, you really should be staying home.”

“I tend to disagree.” Matt chuckled. “As the great Ernest Hemingway once said, write drunk and edit sober.”

Arthur bit back a laugh, but Karen didn’t even attempt to hide the squeal that escaped from between her lips.

“Meet us at the Shanty at half past seven, alright?” She instructed, voice firm. “We’re going to have some good pub food and a few lagers and then we can get your intoxicated self in front of a keyboard.”

Matt nodded, and after downing the rest of their tea in a gulp each, Arthur and Kaz swept out of his flat with the same suddenness as they had come in.

He sat back down with his laptop, hesitating before adding a few hundred words onto his chronicle of the day when he realized he would never be able to be a professional footballer.

There was debate as to whether or not Hemingway had given the advice about sobriety (or lack thereof) when writing. It was undisputed, however, that Hemingway had said one thing: “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

The loss of a dream, he knew better than anyone, hurt.

 

\---

 

He stood outside the Shanty at half gone seven, rocking back and forth on his heels until he spotted Kaz’s fiery hair amongst the crowd of people ebbing and flowing on the pavement in front of the pub.

When she greeted him, it was like she hadn’t seen him in months, rather than hours. Her arms tangled around his neck, and much to Arthur’s disapproval, she placed a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. Matt rolled his eyes as he shoved Kaz off of him, wiping at his cheek comically.

Karen led the way into the pub, and gestured towards a booth in the back corner of the dimly-lit room. He wasn’t entirely sure, but Matt thought that there was another person already occupying the booth, though they were sitting alone.

As they got closer to the table, Matt realized that his original suspicion had been right, and his stomach dropped down to his feet. He had to force himself to keep walking, not breaking his stride even the slightest bit even as she turned around to greet them.

“Matt, honey.” Her voice was warm and inviting, and he didn’t think she sounded the least bit bitter. In an odd way, that bothered him. “It’s been too long.”

“Hullo, Alex.” He forced a smile.

“Have you heard the news?” Kaz enthused, sliding into the booth and pulling Arthur in behind her, so Matt was forced to sit next to Alex, his thigh pressed against hers. “Numpty here’s going to be writing a book!”

“Shut up, Kaz.” Matt huffed, flushing. “It’s not done yet, you shouldn’t just announce it to everyone like it’s a done deal.”

“It so is, though.” Karen shook her head, exasperated. “We both know that you’re going to finish it just so you can prove me wrong.”

“You never said I wasn’t going to finish, so I don’t have to prove you wrong.” Matt countered.

“I don’t think you’re going to finish.” Kaz stated. “There, now you can prove me wrong.”

“Well, if you care at all,” Matt shot Kaz a glare. “Even if I do finish it, I need to find someone to write me a foreword, or my publisher’s never going to forgive me.”

“Ew.” Kaz wrinkled her nose. “That seems like it would be hard work.”

“All you have to say is good things about Matt.” Arthur teased.

“Hard work.” Karen repeated. “ _Really_ hard work.”

“I could do it.” Alex offered.

 _Damn Arthur and Kaz for making him give into his only weakness_.

“We can talk about that later.” Kaz proclaimed. “Until then, I insist upon buying you all fish and chips and some damn fine beer.”

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant haze of stealing chips off of one another’s plates, drinking, laughing, and talking much too loudly much too late. Despite that, though, Matt smiled a real, genuine smile as he left the pub. His self-imposed solitary confinement had put more stress on him than he realized, and as he hailed a cab, he realized just how much he needed to unwind.

Sadly, unwinding wasn’t the easiest when the feel of Alex’s leg pressed against his was still etched onto his skin.

Sitting in his bed with her laugh still ringing in his ears, he was reminded once again of Hemingway, and through the haze of half-sleep that had claimed him, he nodded to himself.

 _Write hard and clear about what hurts_. Matt thought to himself, moments before he allowed himself the solace of total silence that was sleep.

When he woke up, he still hurt.


	3. green

The night previous at the pub, Alex had agreed to meet him that day at his flat, on the sole condition that he let her read the first chapter of his book. The first chapter was just blathering, so of course he had agreed to the stipulation. If she had asked for the most recent chapter (the fourth), then perhaps he would have had a few more trepidations. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Alex to read what he had written, but more that he didn’t want her to realize how weak he was. She had always thought him to be strong, and he tried to convince himself it was natural that he didn’t want to change that.

As it was, he needed to prepare for her arrival. As Karen and Arthur had so graciously pointed out the day before, his flat was a total and utter pigsty, and most certainly not worthy of hosting Alex Kingston.

He whistled as he worked, cleaning up the many, many, _many_ mugs that were strewn around his flat, some still full with stone-cold, murky brown tea. His mother would have a fit if she saw so much of it go to waste, and Matt frowned guiltily as he dumped another cup of the offending liquid into the sink.

He continued cleaning for what must have been an hour, busying himself with picking up packets of crisps and scrubbing countertops. His whistling slowly became less cheerful, transforming into an excess of heavy sighs to a tune. After another half an hour, any semblance of a tune was gone, and he was just exhaling. Either he had gotten the time wrong (he had written down the number twelve on his hand, and he had assumed it to be noon, not midnight), or Alex wasn’t showing up.

Both options were disappointing.

Just as he was curling up with another cup of tea, intent on actually _finishing_ it, an anxious knocking came from his front door. Leaving the cup on the coffee table and noting its presence – he was _going_ to finish it, god damn it! – Matt strolled to the door, opening it to reveal a very flustered Alex.

“I’m so sorry, I totally forgot, I was packing to go back to New York and then I realize it was already half gone noon and I was supposed to be here almost an hour ago, I’m sorry –” She began spitting up words at him, wringing her hands as she peered at him with nervous green eyes.

“It’s fine, Alex.” He soothed, stepping away from the doorway so she could come inside. “I thought that I had buggered up and written down the wrong time, so I suppose this is the better option.” He smirked. “At least you’re here.”

“Better late than never?” Alex attempted with a feeble smile, sitting down on his sofa and wrinkling her nose at him.

Matt nodded, grinning back at her to ease her nerves.

“What a slut time is. She screws everybody.” Alex commented idly, examining her nails before looking up to see a very shocked Matt.

“What?” She asked dubiously. “Surprised to hear me say the word slut?”

“No!” Matt protested, much too quickly. “Just – well, yeah, I suppose so.”

“Having a child cleans up your language a considerable bit.” Alex chuckled. “They’re not even my words, anyways. Salome made me read this book about teenagers with cancer and that was something one of the characters said to the other.”

“Seems like a pretty depressing book.” Matt said, flopping down beside Alex on the couch.

“Well, yeah.” She shrugged. “In the end one of the main characters dies of their cancer. It’s not exactly sunshine and rainbows.”

“Remind me _never_ to read that book. I wouldn’t be able to endure the emotional trauma.” Matt shuddered.

“Well, I came here to read a different book.” Alex announced. “Where is it?”

“A chapter of a different book.” Matt corrected. “It’s on my laptop – I wanted to save trees so I didn’t print it. I hope that’s alright?” He looked at Alex imploringly.

“Yeah, yeah.” She picked up the abandoned cup of tea on the coffee table and took a sip.

_At least it’s not going to waste_. Matt thought to himself with a smile as he handed his computer over to Alex, who was decidedly better at balancing it while drinking a hot liquid than he was. It was a miracle he hadn’t wrecked the poor thing already with all the multi-tasking he’d been doing.

“How’s it going to end?” Alex asked after a few moments.

“I don’t know.” Matt admitted sheepishly. “I was kind of hoping that I’d have some sort of epiphany by the time I reached the word count.”

“Oh, Matthew.” Alex chuckled at him, setting down the cup of tea. “How endlessly you amuse me.”

“Oi!” He exclaimed defensively. “What’s so amusing about my naiveté?”

“So you realize you’re being naïve in your hope?” Alex teased, prodding him in the ribs with her elbow. “By the time you reach the word count, you’re going to be so sick of your own life that you’re going to want to go borrow someone else’s.”

“That’s sort of what I do for a living anyways.” Matt smirked. “Have you ever tried to write an autobiography, Kingston? Because that seems like the sort of wisdom only gained through experience.”

“I wrote three.” Alex replied wistfully. “I never published them, though. They were more of a cathartic experience for me than books meant for anyone else to consume.”

“Huh.” Matt said, voice noncommittal. “Not sure how you ever found time for that.” He added, not wanting to leave an awkward pause in the conversation.

“In between Moll and ER I wrote the first one.” Alex said, staring at his laptop screen with too strong a focus to actually be reading anything. “Though I suppose that was more of a memoir. All of them were, I guess. But it was about Ralph and everything I went through with him.” She took a deep breath, and he could see the tense set of her shoulders. He almost felt bad for asking about it.

“That one was called Valkyrie.” She added. “Like the female warriors in Norse mythology.” She clarified.

Matt nodded, and then paused. Just when it seemed like she was done discussing her own foray into autobiographical writing, she licked her lips and began again. “The second one I wrote when I left ER. It was about my journey through the show, having Salome, and the beginning of the end of my second marriage, ending when I found out I wasn’t going to be appearing on ER anymore.”

Matt dipped his head again, not sure what to say.

“I never thought of the name for that one until after I had finished the third one, actually. I named it Better Days. Because they were the best days of my life.” Her eyes never moved from the screen, and her voice was carefully neutral, and Matt found himself feeling more like a bobble head than a person.

“The last one was the hardest to write. It covered everything from the end of ER to my fiftieth birthday. It was the only one I actually considered publishing.” She didn’t bother looking at the words on his laptop, instead staring straight ahead, boring a hole into the wall. “Time Is A Slut.” She said. “That was the title.” She laughed.

Matt looked at her, unsure of whether to laugh, too.

“Sorry, that was rather depressing, wasn’t it?” Alex laughed again. Her laugh was faker the second time; even though it had been self-deprecating and barking when she reminisced about her maybe-memoir maybe-autobiography, it was still an Alex laugh. The time after had sounded happier, but also like a laugh track they played on awful sitcoms. Matt didn’t like it.

“I like it.” Alex said after a long period of awkward silence. He hadn’t even realized she’d gone back to reading until she announced her approval.

“Thanks.” He responded, shifting from side to side.

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short, though, darling.” She commented, handing him his computer back and picking up her cup of tea again. “You have a good story to tell. Tell it.”

“I’m not really sure how great of a story it is right now.” He furrowed his eyebrows.

“Don’t do that.” Alex said, slapping him lightly on the upper arm. “It’ll all turn out fine, trust me.” She took another gulp of tea and then set the cup down, standing up. “I’ll have a copy of the foreword sent to you as soon as I can, alright? I’ve got to go finish packing now, or I would stay longer.”

Matt put his computer aside so he could walk her to the door, bewildered by the sudden outpour of information about Alex’s own writing career and her rather abrupt leaving with a paper thin excuse. Still, it would be rude of him to point that out, and it was too late anyways as Alex had already strolled out the door, barely paying him enough mind to kiss him on the cheek before she left.


End file.
